


dionysus

by cursedwurm



Series: regarding jonah magnus and his associates [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Character Study, Gender Identity, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Molly Houses, Non-Binary Barnabas Bennett, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Religious Guilt, Trans Barnabas Bennett, gnc characters, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursedwurm/pseuds/cursedwurm
Summary: Idly, Barnabas had thought about Dionysus, the Greek god of alcohol, festivities and madness, who had been raised as a woman and whose gender had often been presented as intentionally confusing in the books written on him. The material of their dress had brushed over his leg as they had moved closer to him, and he had watched the silk catch the light as the garment folded against his knee with such a genuine curiosity that he almost hadn’t heard when the stranger had spoken to him again.--Regarding faith, identity and Barnabas Bennett's love for a man not so different from himself.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett & Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus
Series: regarding jonah magnus and his associates [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794436
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	dionysus

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something exploring religion, gender and sexuality, since fics set in this time often gloss over the fact that being gay was,,, kinda illegal in the early 1800s. This piece is a mixture of a lot of research and self-projection so it's kinda different to what I usually write. I myself am a non-binary lesbian, and while i am not transmasc I've had advice from a couple of transmasc friends/mutuals when writing this!!  
> As always, please comment/kudos if you enjoy this!! and you can hmu on tumblr [here](https://snapdraqons.tumblr.com/)
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> \- Homophobia  
> \- Some referenced transphobia  
> \- References to death + hanging - being gay fell under buggery in the early 1800s, which was punishable by death  
> \- Christian imagery and guilt

The cold winter air stings Barnabas’ eyes and he pulls his coat tighter around his body. He looks out at the empty grounds of his home, the garden overgrown and mostly forgotten. The January breeze penetrates the fabric of his clothes and he shivers, watching as grey clouds gather across the sunrise, dark and threatening as they loom overhead. He doesn’t say anything, watching his breath form clouds in the air in front of him. If he isn’t focused on that, on  _ something,  _ his mind will wander, will stray to thoughts he’s not sure he should have and his face will redden with excitement and his skin will burn in all the places he’d been touched. His lips ache, scorched by the press of his friend’s, his lover’s, his Jonah's to his own, and every so often he lifts his hand, subconsciously placing his gloved fingertips on them in an attempt to recreate the warm and frantic pressure that’s been playing on his mind since the previous night. 

Barnabas is tired.  
There are heavy grey bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and when he speaks his throat hurts and the words come out coarse and dry. His muscles ache under his skin, a painfully delightful reminder of his lover’s kiss, his voice, his body pressed warm and firm against his own. He’s so, so tired, and yet-

And yet he’s never felt so awake _.  _ So alive. So  _ himself. _

And now he’s thinking about it again, about the way Jonah had breathed his name, each syllable spilling from his lips like a prayer; the way his lover had worshipped him, hands trailing down his body; the way his lips formed prayers and hymns of love and lust and desperation that grew higher and more frantic with every kiss they shared. He remembers how his lover had looked, auburn hair splayed out on the pillow beneath him like a fiery halo, pale skin marred only with bruises and bite-marks that Barnabas had created himself. 

"You're so beautiful," Barnabas had muttered, cupping his lover's face in his hand and tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. 

Jonah had smiled, the freckled skin around his seafoam eyes creasing as he let out a chuckle. "I could say the same about you, angel."

_ Angel,  _ Jonah had called him. It had felt so right, so perfect at the time; it still does, though it feels strange to admit it. Looking back at it now, it's almost ironic. Barnabas doesn't consider himself a  _ bad  _ person, but he's certainly no angel. He's as close to the Devil as his lover, just as human and twice as sinful. He doesn't know what exists beyond what he knows, beyond this physical Earth he lives on. He does, however, know that lying beside Jonah, combing his fingers through his hair and listening as he'd gasped his name, is the closest he would ever get to paradise.

Barnabas is confused.  
His own emotions are complicated, his identity an enigma that even he does not understand. His whole life he's been taught what love looks like through books and serials in newspapers; a man meets a woman, they marry, they kiss, they have children. If they are anything like his own parents, they will argue whenever they're together and barely acknowledge their children as anything more than a bitter reminder of a relationship turned sour. If they aren't like his parents, the man and the woman will grow old in each-other's company, fearing nothing save for the day that one will have to live without the other. Barnabas had never imagined himself in love, had never been able to see himself walking the aisle of a church or kissing a woman dressed in white. Even as a teenager, when the prospect of marriage would occasionally cross his mind, the figure he would envision waiting for him at the altar had always been faceless, both male and female and yet neither at the same time. As he got older and puberty had settled in he'd seen himself standing at the altar instead, still just as faceless and just as unidentifiable as his bride.

Up until now, in his mid-twenties with nothing to show for it save for money and an estate inherited from grandparents he'd never met, love had been something he'd dreaded, something that made him sick to his stomach to even consider. Figuring out himself is difficult enough without having to figure out  _ love _ . Every time he feels like he's fit all of the pieces together, he realises another is missing, leaving the puzzle of himself incomplete. Still, he doesn't fuss, doesn't ask for help - it isn't like many will have the missing pieces, after all. And yet…

And yet every so often he finds a piece, tucked away somewhere he'd never thought to look.

In 1809, a friend from Barnabas' boarding school had cut his hair short and changed his name in order to study medicine. His name had been and always will be, as far as Barnabas is concerned, Jonathan Fanshawe, and Barnabas remembers watching him cut his hair over a basin with a pair of fabric shears and wondering how well his own hair would take to being cut short, how his own name would take to being changed. This would remain a constant in the back of his mind, taking over his thoughts when they were otherwise unoccupied; a part of him had not been sure if he’d been doing the right thing, but the more he considered it, the more appealing it had sounded.

In 1810, he’d found a pair of nail scissors sitting unused in his vanity. It had taken a long time to cut his hair, as he’d been unable to go through more than a small section at a time. By the time he’d finished, his bedroom floor had been covered with curls of chestnut brown hair and he had decided what he would call himself. He’s not entirely sure where the name Barnabas came from. He doesn’t know a Barnabas, has never read a book by or about a Barnabas, has no connections to the name Barnabas whatsoever. But he likes how it sounds, how it rolls off his tongue when he says his full name.

_ Barnabas Bennett. _

It is not much - a simple name for a simple person - but it sounds right. It sounds like  _ him.  _

That had helped. Of course it had helped. Now when he looks in the mirror he sees himself, no longer hidden under the layers of lace and muslin that he'd grown to hate. A part of him had hoped that this would solve his problems, that finally feeling like himself would free him, in a sense. But a part of him had still felt - and continues to feel, to this day - confused. Sometimes he wonders if this is this really all there is to it. Is it really as simple as a name, a haircut, a change of appearance and mannerisms? There's still something wrong, something missing, like he's gone too far the other way and can't figure out how or why it has happened. Sometimes it's fine, but other times he'll lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he's something, some _ one _ else entirely.  For the longest time it's been something Barnabas has been able to push down. Now, though, it's playing at the front of his mind constantly, brought back to his own attention mixed in with all of the other beautiful, horrible, confusing emotions he is experiencing. It had been fine before.

And then he'd fallen in love.

Barnabas is in love .   
It’s strange to admit, but for the first time in his life, he is experiencing it - not just reading it in a book or a serial, he's actually  _ feeling _ it. It had started off with a slight twisting in his stomach, something akin to nausea without any of the actual sickness. Then, much to his horror and delight, it had grown, blossoming like a rose into something just as beautiful and twice as dangerous. Love feels nothing like how he’d expected it to. It’s nowhere near as sweet or as simple as his novels had made it out to be - and yet succumbing to it couldn’t feel more  _ right _ , and with every second that he spends in his lover’s embrace he feels another piece of his puzzle fall into place. 

He'd met the object of his affections at a sort of party that Jonathan - now a practicing doctor - had begged him to come along to. He'd said he wouldn't feel safe going alone, and that Barnabas was the only person he trusted to accompany him. Feeling guilty, Barnabas had agreed, meeting with him in his Edinburgh apartment one Thursday evening and escorting him to the venue.

The party, it had turned out, was not a party at all. It had certainly been a gathering, yes, but not a means of celebration and certainly not one that people showed up to by invitation. Jonathan had pulled him aside as they'd approached what looked to be some sort of tavern, checking for anyone that might be listening before speaking in a hushed voice.

"I need to apologise," he had said softly, "I haven't been completely truthful."

Barnabas had frowned. "What is this place then?" he'd asked, "If not a party?"

Jonathan had hesitated for a moment, eyes wide with paranoia as he had checked once again to make sure they were alone. "This… this is a molly-house, Barnabas," he'd explained quickly, "I had thought that a man of your… of your nature would be willing to accompany me without...”

Barnabas had raised an eyebrow. “Without what?”

“Without  _ snitching.” _

“...I see,” Barnabas had nodded, taking Jonathan’s hand into his own, “I assure you, if anyone asks about this, neither of us were ever here.”

“Thank you, Barnabas,” he’d said, “I shan’t forget this.”

From the outside, the molly-house had looked no different from any other inn, if a little dirty and run-down. As they had drawn closer, Barnabas had noted the smashed glass littering the paving stones in front of it and the crude, somewhat disturbing messages that had been etched into the brick-work by a vandal clearly upset by the establishment’s clientele. If Jonathan had seen said messages he did not bring it up, and had led Barnabas inside without a word. The inside of the molly-house had not been so familiar. 

It had been loud and bustling; patrons danced to lively music playing from a small band in one corner while small groups - mostly couples - sat close in corners and crevices with bodies and lips pressed together. At first glance the patrons had seemed to be a mixture of people; women in large, ornate dresses sat in the laps of working class men, sharing drinks and stories with arms wrapped tightly around one another’s waists. As Barnabas had made his way further inside, however, he had noticed many of the women were, presumably, not women after all, but rather men dressed in costumes, dressed in skirts and petticoats. Some wore it simply as an outfit, and some had been dolled up in a theatrical over-performance of femininity. Something in the back of Barnabas’ mind had told him to be disturbed by this, to be confused by the androgyny, the toying with the social norms of gender that he had come to accept. Something had wished that he’d been uncomfortable at the overt displays of affection between men, purely because he’d felt like he had to. But that small something had been overpowered by the sheer curiosity he’d felt as he’d made his way across the tavern towards the bar at the back, watching with excitement and intrigue as the other patrons drank, danced and kissed as if the world outside had no longer existed. 

It had been comforting in a way that nothing else had ever been before.

At some point Barnabas had found an empty seat and ordered a beer with the little money he had brought with him. The chatter in the molly-house nearly drowned out the music: a high-tempo jig that played on a number of cheap wind instruments that barely produced any sound in the first place. Barnabas had never been one for parties or merriments (he would have much rather been left alone than attend a gathering of  _ any  _ size) and yet he had watched the display of excitement and freedom before him with an easiness he had never felt before, utterly enthralled. There had been something about it, something about the way so many of the patrons had been indiscernible in their identity - neither male or female and yet both at the same time - that had captured his attention so wholly, so completely, that he had been unable to tear his eyes away.

He had not been sure how long he’d been watching, nursing an untouched pint of beer, when an unfamiliar voice had broken the trance he’d been in and pulled him back into reality. He’d blinked in surprise as they had spoken, close enough to be directed towards him but not quite loud enough to be heard. “...Excuse me?” 

“I said, you’re new here,” the voice had come again, sounding significantly more annoyed, “Though I suppose you do not need me to tell you that.” The voice’s owner had been no older than Barnabas - in their mid-twenties at most - and wore an embroidered emerald green gown and fanned themself with a matching fan. Their auburn hair had been cut fairly short, their face free of make-up save for a small amount of rouge on each cheek; their chest had risen and fell heavily under the embellished silk of their dress and their face glistened with sweat from whatever dance (whether a literal or metaphorical one) they’d just completed. They had held themself with a confidence that Barnabas could only dream of, and regarded him with a quirked eyebrow that had looked somewhere between intrigued and amused.

“Yes,” he had eventually replied, “I, uh... I have never been to something like this before.”

The person who’d approached him had let out a soft chuckle, sipping their glass of wine. “I can tell,” they’d told him softly, “Not many men come here just to watch and have a drink.” The stranger had smiled at him, and for a brief moment Barnabas had found himself hypnotised. They were genuinely beautiful, their auburn hair framing their face like a painting. The green of their dress sat bold and stark against their skin, though the apparent lack of shaping left their body distinguishably un-feminine underneath their clothes. Despite this, however, their appearance had also been decidedly not-masculine sitting somewhere both between the two and completely separate from them altogether. 

Idly, Barnabas had thought about Dionysus, the Greek god of alcohol, festivities and madness, who had been raised as a woman and whose gender had often been presented as intentionally confusing in the books written on him. The material of their dress had brushed over his leg as they had moved closer to him, and he had watched the silk catch the light as the garment folded against his knee with such a genuine curiosity that he almost hadn’t heard when the stranger had spoken to him again.

“...Are you alright?” they’d asked, and Barnabas had felt his face flush, looking up at them sheepishly.

“Yes!” he’d replied, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, “Yes, I’m quite alright.”

“Good.” The stranger had nodded, paused to sip their drink, then moved their lace-gloved hand to rest on Barnabas’ knee; a simple gesture that had been both intimate and platonic at the same time. “How would you feel about getting a private room?” they’d asked.

Barnabas had nearly choked on his drink. “ _ Sorry, _ a private..?”

The stranger had laughed, sipping their drink and crossing one leg over the other. “Nothing has to happen if you do not want it to,” they’d told him, “I just thought you might like to go somewhere a little… quieter.

Barnabas had paused for a moment, taking a moment to watch as a dancer in a wine-red theatrical gown pressed their lips to their partners neck, their display of affection and performance of gender entirely untraditional yet utterly hypnotising and somehow flawless. Then he had put down his drink and nodded, taking the gloved hand that the stranger had offered him and letting them lead him upstairs.

Nothing much happened between them that night. The stranger, who, at the end of the night, had introduced himself as Jonah Magnus, had simply listened to Barnabas as he'd explained everything: his relationship with his physical self, his own identity, the confusion and joy and intense sense of longing he'd felt when he'd first looked upon Jonah and had been completely unable to tell whether he was male, female or something else altogether.

"Is that even an option?" he'd asked, and Jonah had let out a chuckle as he'd finished his glass of wine.

"Yes," he'd replied, "If you want it to be."

They'd kissed then, softly and gently. Barnabas had been kissed only once before, as a drunken joke by a man in a tavern he'd barely known. That had been awkward and sloppy and he'd only enjoyed it because he'd been drunk. This, however, had been slow and careful, drawn out and tender and fuelled by something far more genuine than cheap beer and adrenaline. For just a brief moment Barnabas had felt completely weightless, the world outside that room no longer existing and nothing mattering save for Jonah's lips pressed against his own. Before the night had turned to morning and they parted ways, they had agreed to meet again. As he'd started his journey home in the early hours of the following day Barnabas' mind had once again strayed to a god - one he knew that, if real, would be looking down on him. 

The following week Barnabas had read in a local newspaper that the molly house he'd visited had been raised by the authorities. Five men had been arrested, and their presence at the Molly house had been all the jury needed to find them guilty of buggery. He had not been able to read on; he'd known the penalty after all, and the law had never been forgiving to sinners deemed undeserving of such mercy.

Barnabas is scared.  
It is a terrifying feeling: to fall in love with someone, to finally feel comfortable in both body and identity, only for the world around you to consider it a crime. After years of questioning himself Barnabas no longer fears love, no longer sees a strange amalgamation of both man and woman approaching him at the altar when his mind is unoccupied and strays to the terrifying thought of marriage. He does, however, see a noose. It hangs empty from a wooden scaffold, swaying in the cool Edinburgh breeze, in a plaza in front of a church so he can beg for forgiveness one last time before the floor drops from underneath him and his neck breaks under the weight of his sins.

Barnabas shivers at the thought as the wind blows harder, the frost-tipped grass rippling like water beneath his feet. He wonders what Jonah is doing now. When he’d left the bedroom his lover had still been tangled in the bed sheets, sharp features softened by slumber. He’d watched him sleep for a while, his lips parted and his warm auburn hair splayed out over the pillow like a halo. It is always strange to see him like that: sweet and placid, so unlike the firm, rigid confidence he has when awake. Barnabas had tucked a stray curl of hair behind his ear as he slept, and he’d wondered how loving a man could carry the same penalty as killing him. He wonders if Jonah feels the same way as he does, if he also looks over his shoulder every time they embrace or checks to make sure no-one is in earshot before confessing his affections. He wonders if he, too, feels the constant paranoia, the prying eyes of others - strangers or otherwise - whenever their gazes meet for even a second longer than usual. He wonders if the only ring Jonah can see himself wearing is not a golden band around his finger, but a loop of rope wrapped tightly around his neck. He wonders if, despite it all, he is terrified of what will become of him if their love were to be seen, to be known by the wrong person. 

The wind blows harder and the cold in the air turns to damp as the first drops of rain begin to fall. It’s a Sunday, he realises, as he hears the distant toll of the bell from the local church. He hasn’t stepped foot inside such a building for several years now. If they were still alive, his parents would be disappointed in him - he’d been christened, confirmed and brought up under the Church of England and had been taught wrong from right by a priest who rarely practiced what he’d preached. Barnabas still remembers the stale smell of the booth where he’d confessed to his confusion in his identity, where he had been told that God made him to play a specific role in life and to reject this role would be to reject the Lord. He still remembers the statue of Mary he’d prayed under at least twice a week, her motherly smile turning sour as he’d begged her for her guidance. He still remembers how he’d lock himself in his room after every service he’s attended, the salty taste of tears doing nothing to remove the bitter-sweet of watered-down communion wine. It scares him to this day, still makes him sick to his stomach to even recall.

The ringing of the church bells in the distance starts to fade and he feels the nausea inside him do the same.

Barnabas is cold.  
The breeze runs its fingers through his hair and gently caresses his skin, embracing him like an old but unwelcome friend. He wishes he could say he minds it, but somehow the cold emptiness of the winter air around him is a comfort. The wind kisses him, but there’s no love in it, no room for betrayal, no way its warmth can dissipate and become icy and unkind.  
Unlike him, Jonah is warm.

He knows he should go back inside, lest he become ill, but if he returns now he’ll only be met by warmth, the simmering heat of his lover’s embrace that he cannot help but fear will go out and freeze over. Jonah is a comfort, yes, he’s familiar and tender, but every touch of his skin to Barnabas’ feels like fire, branding him with love and fear and shame in a horrible, confusing concoction that he loves and craves and loathes all at the same time. When they kiss it is intoxicating, but when Barnabas sobers up he wonders if he’s overindulging, if this is just something new to add to his ever-growing list of sins that he’ll ask a god he doesn’t believe in to absolve him of. 

The rain is becoming heavier and starts to soak through his clothes, the jacket he’d pulled haphazardly over his shoulders growing heavy and uncomfortable against his skin. The cold remains pleasant but the damp is becoming unbearable, and Barnabas watches his breath form a cloud in the air one last time before finally going inside. Just before he closes the door he looks out into the distance, where the bell tower of the local parish can be seen from between the barren trees, and says a silent prayer to no-one asking that, when he does finally pass he will no longer be afraid, and there will be no-one, angel or demon, to receive him.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: 'molly' or 'mol' used to be a slang term for both a gay man and a prostitute, and 'molly house' referred to both a very early form of gay bar and a brothel. Also, cross-dressing was very common in molly houses and was essentially an early form of drag. However, because most of the historical sources we have on this came from people who disapproved, it's unclear how many 'cross-dressers' were men presenting femininely and how many were trans women. I tried to keep it fairly vague in the fic for this reason.


End file.
